


Rebirth-Days

by Beth H (bethbethbeth)



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Challenge: Brief Birthday Celebration, F/M, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-03
Updated: 2010-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-08 09:17:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethbethbeth/pseuds/Beth%20H
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Severus Snape was reborn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rebirth-Days

**Author's Note:**

> _Written for the [2010 Severus Shorts Brief Birthday Celebration](http://community.livejournal.com/severus_shorts/). Originally posted February 3, 2010._)

**9 January, 2000**

In the year 2000, the 9th of January passed precisely as the previous 609 days had done: with no visible change in the condition of Hogwarts' most famous and least conscious living resident.

For twenty months, Severus Snape - former Potions Master, former Defense Master, former Head of Slytherin House, former Headmaster (pro tem), former Death Eater, and former Spy - had been under the care of Poppy Pomfrey in a private room in a quiet corner of the Hospital Wing. The residual poisons from Nagini's near-fatal bite had long since been purged from his system, and the most current potions and medical procedures - both Magical and Muggle - had been brought to bear, but so far, Severus had resisted each and every attempt to bring him out of what looked to the casual observer to be nothing more than a very deep sleep.

"He's always been a stubborn boy," Minerva said, not unkindly, as she reached out to brush back a stray, albeit non-existent lock of hair from his forehead.

"Very true," Filius said, drawing his wand to fluff up his colleague's pillow. "Do you remember his first flying lesson?"

Minerva smiled. "I certainly remember Rolanda's complaints at supper that night about how one of her new boys had refused to do a single thing she'd said that day. That he'd just stood there, arms crossed over his skinny chest and glowering at her."

"Oh, yes," said Pomona. "And do you remember coming back from Hogsmeade late that night, long after the childrens' curfew? There he was, out on the Quidditch pitch, dressed in nothing but a faded old nightshirt, clinging desperately to some spare broom he'd liberated from the Slytherin common room, trying to teach himself to fly before the next lesson."

"He couldn't bear the thought of anybody seeing him as less than competent," Minerva said, shaking her head. "Even when he was a wee lad."

"Altogether too much sense of his own dignity, that boy," sniffed Pomona, patting the corner of his duvet.

Filius sighed. "Forty-one years old today. No longer a boy, is he?"

"No," said Minerva quietly. "I'm not entirely sure he ever was."

For a moment, the three heads of House just sat quietly, watching as their former colleague slept, then Pomona chuckled. "What do you think Severus' response would be if the three of us were to sing 'Happy Birthday' to him?"

Filius smiled. "I don't imagine he'd be terribly pleased."

"No," said Minerva. "Not pleased at all - or at least, no more pleased than he was when we sang to him on his thirty-eighth birthday or his thirty-seventh birthday or any of his other birthdays."

"He never tried to hex us any of those times though, did he?" Filius asked.

"No," Minerva said, glancing at the sleeping man. "He never did."

"And it isn't as though he's in any state to hex us now."

"Very true," Pomona said softly. "So...shall I start then?"

_'Happy birthday to you,  
Happy birthday to you....'_

* * *

**9 January, 2001**

"That's you sorted out then, Mister Henshaw," said Hermione, returning her wand to its sleeve. "And now that you possess the requisite single head once again, perhaps you'll be able to return to your supper?"

"Yes, miss," mumbled the First Year, his one head bowed.

"And maybe next time that Professor Flitwick warns you against pointing your wand at yourself while performing a replication spell, you'll listen?"

"Yes, miss."

"Run along, then."

Quick as a flash, the boy disappeared, and for the seventh time in the past hour, Hermione glanced up at the clock. However, the hand that bore Madam Pomfrey's name still pointed stubbornly towards St. Mungo's.

Hermione sighed. She didn't really begrudge the occasional extra time she had to put in when Poppy was called away. If Hermione could trust what her fellow apprentices in the healing arts programme told her about their placements at St. Mungo's - and she had no reason to doubt them - serving an apprenticeship under the Hogwarts' mediwitch was generally less physically exhausting and far more flexible in terms of time than any other placement she could have accepted.

There were always exceptions to the rule, however, and it was looking as if tonight - the first night in ages that Hermione and her two oldest friends had been able to schedule a dinner date - was going to be one of those exceptions.

The aforementioned friends, however, didn't appear to be terribly bothered by the delay. Instead, they had taken the birthday presents they'd been asked to deliver to their still-unconscious former teacher (a green and silver afghan, handmade by Molly and a potted plant - something in the Enervatus family - sent up from the greenhouses by Neville), set them down on the dresser beside his bed, and without asking, made themselves very much at home. Ordinarily, Hermione would have lectured them about letting Professor Snape have his privacy, but she'd read enough Muggle medical journals to know that there'd been documented cases where comatose patients improved or awoke in response to auditory stimuli, and Harry and Ron were nothing if not producers of auditory stimuli.

It did not, however, generally manifest itself in the form of an explosion.

Hermione ran to Professor Snape's room, fearing the worst, but instead of the devastation she had convinced herself she'd find there, she saw only a slightly scorched Ron, sitting at the foot of the bed and grinning from ear to ear.

"What in the world is going on in here?" Hermione hissed. "Where's Harry."

Ron laughed. "He fell off the bed! He's all right - maybe a little singed - but you should have been here, 'Mione. It was brilliant and I won the pot."

"Still say you cheated," Harry muttered as he got up from the floor.

"Jealousy's such an ugly emotion," said Ron.

"You won the...Ronald Bilius Weasley: you are not going to tell me that you and your idiot friend were playing Exploding _Snap_ on the bed of one of my patients. On the bed of Professor _Snape_?"

"I'm not? I mean, yeah, sorry...but really, Hermione, we were just....tell her, Harry."

"I don't want to hear another word from either one of you. Get out of the professor's room immediately. Honestly, what were the two of you thinking? Of all the idiotic, immature, dangerous...."

"You forgot _dunderheaded_," rasped a never-forgotten voice.

Ron leapt off the bed as quickly as if a snake was rearing up to sink its fangs into him, and he and Harry backed up towards the door, while Hermione...well, Hermione knew there was probably something of a healing nature she should be doing right now, but all she could do was stare, open-mouthed at a finally-conscious Severus Snape.

"Well?" he asked hoarsely. "D'you have something else to say?"

What _was_ there to say? She looked around desperately, hoping for some support, but both Ron and Harry had already fled the scene, leaving her alone in the room. Finally her eyes lit upon the gifts, and she turned back to Professor Snape.

"Er...happy birthday?"

* * *

**9 January, 2002**

"Well, Severus," said Kingsley, flicking his wand and setting a pair of cartons on the floor. "That seems to be the last of the items Minerva stored away for you at Hogwarts. I'm sorry we weren't able to save more of your family's possessions, but Robards swore, under Veritaserum, no less, that his team used only defensive spells during the Spinner's End search, and I couldn't really pursue the investigation beyond that point."

"Hmm?" Tightening his grasp on his cane, Severus looked away from the 3-a-side football game taking place in the street below and frowned. "Did you say something, Shacklebolt?"

"It's not important. Not important at all." Kingsley reached into his pocket, withdrew a set of keys, and handed them to Severus. "Now, you know how to use these, yes?"

Severus looked down at the keys, then looked back at Kingsley and narrowed his eyes. "It was a Muggle home that your Aurors burned to the ground...or have you forgotten that already?"

"Right, sorry. Of course you know how to...anyway, Arthur and Molly and I have set some basic wards that should be good until...um...well, until your Magic is at full strength again."

"Full strength." Severus grimaced, and automatically rubbed his wand arm. "Yes, well, that's a rather polite way of saying 'until you're no longer a Squib.'"

Kinglsey sighed. "You aren't a Squib."

"Of course you're not, dear," said Molly, coming back in from the kitchen. "Honestly, I don't know why you decided on a flat in Muggle London. Arthur and I would be perfectly happy to have you stay with us at the Burrow, wouldn't we Arthur?"

"Of course we...."

"There, you see?" Molly said. "Perfectly happy. What if you need something late at night? What will you do then?"

Severus considered actually answering the question, but the thought of having to explain mobile phones and delivery services or even worse, the fact that Granger lived just down the road and she was still feeling guilty enough for abandoning him to die on the floor of the Shrieking Shack that she'd probably be more than happy to run errands for him, at least until he could do magic again, well...it was almost too exhausting to even think about.

"I'll be fine, Molly. If I must, I can do without." He didn't miss the looks that Shacklebolt and the Weasleys exchanged, but when he dredged up an admittedly weakish glare from his old repertoire of expressions, mercifully, the three just let the damned subject drop.

"Well, you men will have things your own way," Molly sniffed. "In any case, there's enough food for a fortnight in that eklectic Muggle cooling box, and we'll be back to check on you in a few days. Come along, Arthur, Kingsley...let's let Severus settle into his new home."

Walking more slowly - and slightly more tentatively - than he ever had before his encounter with Nagini, Severus led his guests to the door, but just as he was shutting it, Molly stopped short and started rummaging in the Chudley Cannons bag Ron had given her for the holidays.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake! I swear I'd forget my own head some days if it wasn't spell-o-taped on." She reached into the bottom of the bag and brought out a neatly wrapped parcel, then handed it to Severus. "For your birthday, my dear. Just a jumper, but I thought you might get some use out of it on the coldest of days. It's the first black wool jumper I've ever made for anybody."

Severus almost said that green would have been perfectly acceptable. He almost told Molly that he'd been using the afghan she'd sent every night for the past year. He almost said thank you.

In the end, though, he simply bowed his head and Molly kissed him on the cheek, then Arthur and Kingsley both patted him on the shoulder before the three Apparated away.

* * *

**9 January, 2003**

It was rather ironic that the shop window Severus shattered in the midst of his very public contretemps with Horace Slughorn was Ollivander's, but at the time, Severus was in no mood to appreciate the irony.

The two men had met at the Leaky Cauldron, as they had done once a fortnight since Severus' awakening. From there, they went into the courtyard and then on through into Diagon Alley where they planned to spend the day.

Severus suspected that his own relative notoriety was the principal lure for Horace, who still loved to bask in the reflected glory of the famous and the infamous, but being given a second chance at life can change a man, and Severus Snape no longer felt the need to hold himself entirely distant from the rest of humanity. There was more than one person in his life that Severus - tentatively - was willing to call 'friend,' and lately he had started to think that there might possibly be one for whom even that name was insufficient. As for Horace...no, it wasn't as if Severus thought of him as a substitute father or anything quite that ridiculously sentimental, but he had known the man since he was eleven years old, and there were few people who knew him better.

However, the mere fact of knowing somebody for many years did not give anybody the right to try and manage their lives. He had allowed Horace to buy him lunch in honor of the anniversary of his birth (those were Horace's words; Severus wasn't entirely convinced that his birthday was anything that required honoring), but that was more than sufficient. He had absolutely no wish for the man to buy him rare books or new robes or any of the other extravagantly priced items that Horace kept attempting to foist upon him, _particularly_ since he was entirely unable to reciprocate, unskilled Muggle jobs being quite miserably paid. However, Horace continued to insist ("But it's not any trouble at all, my dear") and insist ("There's no reason in the world to refuse!") and insist ("Perhaps just a new wand? The wand shop's just across the street. Surely it won't be long now until your Magic returns?"), until Severus snapped, enraged as he could ever remember being.

All at once - before Severus could hurl a single scathing insult in Horace's direction - power of a sort he hadn't possessed in years burst forth, and when the metaphoric dust had settled, all the windows of Ollivander's had shattered.

Severus, unmindful of the crowds of people surrounding him in Diagon Alley, knelt down in the street, covered his face with his hands, and wept with the joy that comes from feeling whole.

* * *

**9 January, 2005**

It was a perfectly ordinary Sunday.

Severus woke at 8:00 a.m. precisely, brushed his teeth, washed his face, then returned to bed - and to sleep - for a further forty-two minutes.

When he woke again, it was to the not-unexpected, ear-piercingly shrill howls of Hermione's cat who clearly had no intention of ceasing his infernal racket until he was let inside. Severus could, of course, have simply opened the back door for the orange moggy with a flick of his wand; however, the newest member of their household - a young half-crup with the unlikely name of Flowerdew - would soon be agitating for his morning walk, and even though that task usually fell within Hermione's purview, Severus thought it might not hurt to take on the duty just this once, given how late Hermione had returned home the night before.

Besides, he had reason to believe that outside the door, a number of gift-laden owls would be waiting patiently for him, just as they had done last year and the year before that.

A short time later, after the crup had been taken out, and the cat had been let in, and the brightly wrapped parcels had been set on the kitchen table, and the tea had been brewed, Severus returned to the bedroom holding two mugs of tea in one hand, a packet of biscuits in the other, and the Muggle papers under his arm (The Independent for Hermione and The Times for himself, although he rarely looked past the crossword puzzle).

It was a perfectly ordinary Sunday, and it was Severus Snape's 46th birthday.

He had his magic.

He had a home.

He had friends.

He had a lover.

He had a life.

Happy birthday, indeed.


End file.
